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do the same.
    â€œRepeat after me,” he said: “I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic”—I found myself speaking the FBI oath from memory, sometimes speeding ahead of him—“that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter.” I took a deep breath. “So help me God.”
    Hale winked at me, and I couldn’t help grinning at him. He sat back in his chair looking like he’d had his cake—as well as Jerry’s—and eaten it, too.
    â€œI’ve deputized Officer Lyons. Y’all can decide whatever you want, but June Lyons is currently an agent of the U.S. government.”
    Jerry protested. “I—”
    â€œGuess that’s settled,” Chief Donnelly said. “Anything else?”
    Chief Donnelly, Jerry, and Hale stayed put to discuss communication with the state authorities. Dave twisted his bulk left and then right, maneuvering out. I followed him into one of the interview rooms.
    Whistling “Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake, he spread his notes across the table.
    â€œTold you, told you,” he started singing, his long legs brushing mine under the low table. I organized the interviews from the river, interviews with Marty and Ray, statements from neighbors, and crime scene information. I heard a sharp rap at the door, and in walked Hale.
    The interview room was meant to inspire claustrophobia in suspects. When Hale took a seat at the table, his shoulders brushed mine. He pushed his chair back as far as he could, which was only a few inches.
    I decided to quash any idea that my role would be FBI informant. “So, Agent Bascom, any questions about our findings after your earlier briefing? Any gaps?”
    â€œNothing you and your colleagues”—Hale nodded at Dave—“haven’t already identified.”
    â€œI was assuming that if the FBI was planning to investigate, perhaps we hadn’t considered an important angle. Do you think she was kidnapped?” Dave watched the two of us as if we were players at a tennis match.
    â€œNot a kidnapping, no.”
    â€œAnything related to the charges she faced in California?” I fished.
    â€œI’m not aware of any charges against Danielle.” He rested his hand on the back of his neck. “Marty, however, is a whole other matter.”
    He was right. When we’d done a search on Marty’s name, a series of federal charges from three years ago came up. Newspaper articles breathlessly recounted how the good looks of this “Rebel Without a Cause” hid a dangerous drug lord and killer. Marty had been facing serious time for the large-scale production and distribution of meth, and RICO charges related to being a fully patched member of the Abominations, one of the big five outlaw motorcycle gangs. In photos, Marty craned his head away from the flashes, more often than not being dragged along by a special agent.
    â€œOur case,” Hale said, “was going to send Marty away for a good long while, and take down the Abominations’ whole operation.”
    â€œBut your witness disappeared?” Dave asked.
    Hale sighed. “Without a trace. It killed us to lose that one. We had spent years cultivating Big Dog—real name Reginald Davidson—as an informant. Finally we got everything lined up just the way we wanted and bang, he was gone. Disappeared. And when we interviewed his wife in her brand-spanking-new condo with the Mustang parked out front, she claimed he ran off with some floozy to Costa Rica.”
    â€œYou think Marty killed him?” I asked.
    â€œWe had Marty locked up tight, but Marty’s dear daddy is head enforcer of the Abominations, the guy that keeps the